


Three Torches

by LCNH1



Series: WWE Thrallverse [9]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2020-07-27 13:42:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20046982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LCNH1/pseuds/LCNH1
Summary: "Whether we are friends or we are enemies, we are gonna own this business."If you've been a fan of WWE since 2012 you've watched the merry misadventures of "Two Indie Schmucks and a Football Player", under the more concise name The Shield.Roman Reigns, Seth Rollins and Dean Ambrose stormed the ring as a unit and spent the next six years climbing the ladder, all three becoming Grand Slam Champions and taking turns in and out of the spotlight.2019 has been a banner year for all three of them despite adversities from many sides. They have all come to that moment where all that turmoil, all the miles, the injuries, the triumphs and failures become worth the while.These crowning moments, proverbial torch passings for these three men we've come to love indivdually, paired up or as the most powerful and influential trio in WWE in the 2010s.





	1. Roman Reigns

Extreme Rules had slowly turned into a misnomer; stemming from the One Night Stand shows from the mid-2000s where the long-defunct Extreme Championship Wrestling was celebrated through those who lived it. The event had faded with the glory of those chaotic days in Philadelphia, yet here they were again.

Roman Reigns had his own history with Philadelphia. Here he’d been derided as a Corporate Chosen One when he won the Royal Rumble there. Not even the Rock could stop the vitriol that cascaded from the rafters on the two Samoans. Rock stood beside his cousin, perplexed; Roman himself tried to keep a brave face, only for the anger and frustration of a crowd to escalate. But in that moment, while Reigns’ soul was bruised from the rejection, he spent the rest of the year trying to win them back.

He wasn’t a clever talker like his cousin. He wasn’t a fancy tactical wrestler like Daniel Bryan. He didn’t see himself a high-flyer, nothing like the Usos. No, in that year he tightened his game and at the end, he demolished his own boss before the same crowd to a complete 180. They cheered him as a hero, striking down the evil Authority and showing that flash of greatness that he’d aspired. A spot he would spend the next couple of years earning, then nearly losing again.

Again the world turned on him at Wrestlemania when he retired the Undertaker. While the company called it a torch passing, the bearer of that torch - the Son of Cerberus - had no plans on surrendering completely. He’d put on a show for the honchos by leaving his duster, gloves and hat behind, embracing his mortal wife before the cameras and departing to great pomp and circumstance. But he knew, and Roman knew, that this was not over by any means.

They had privately reconciled and Taker gave Roman room to continue to prosper and embrace the business that embraced Roman’s family, bordering on four generations now. He’d achieved his Grand Slam of titles, worked with the two men who brought him into this business, and continued to hear the crowds cheer or boo him as they did John Cena before him. An almost identical matter, too, despite Roman’s struggles and vulnerabilities til finally felling the Beast to claim the Universal Championship and bring it back to television where it belonged.

Where his heart held him up, his body failed him, if only briefly. A man seen as nearly unstoppable attacked by the one villain that didn’t discriminate, the Leukemia that staggered him a decade before. He chose to step down, amidst fans and foes alike, in hopes that he could one day return and continue this journey that he’d grown to love even if many didn’t love him.

Somewhere in that time off, something had changed. Was it his new battle with Leukemia that hit so close to home? He’d never seen so many tears, not just in the crowd, but in the back. Tears from his brothers, a river flowing from the boyish brown eyes of Seth Rollins, tears hidden in a supposedly sweaty face of his closest friend Dean Ambrose. In that time away, in that bout that could have swung either way, something did change. 

People got to see an ordinary guy named “Joe” looking to get his life back together. What felt like a year, but only a few fleeting months, Joe and Roman returned to the company having accomplished that mission. 

He walked back in with new purpose. He arrived overflowing with Thrall that had poured in from all over the globe in his time off, a power unmatched from anything and everything he had done in the ring prior. It coursed through his body, his imagination and ego giving him strange ideas of what he could have done with all that power at his disposal. He could have taken over the entire company and lead from the front, and many would not have found fault with it. 

Instead, he realized that this power that needed to go back to those who he worked with. Those that rallied with him before this disastrous news, those that stood with him before and after this bout of adversity, starting with his brothers and working his way around the roster. All of that Thrall restored Dean Ambrose, even if he chose to move on to be happier; that thrall bolstered Seth Rollins, who slowly matured into a locker room leader in his own right in Roman’s absence. That thrall bolstered the confidence and hopes of everyone in that locker room and to many of the fans who continued to watch, all looking to him as an example of not giving up. A beacon of hope that brought Roman to his proverbial knees, humbled that he somehow inspired more people with that time. It would be difficult to live up to, but Roman took on that challenge as he had anything else in his life, head-on.

The whispers of what this new power could do only wafted up the corporate ladder, where even the McMahons wanted a piece of these energies. Vince charged right at Roman for it; Roman smote him with a Superman punch for his troubles, sending him reeling. Elias Samson and Drew McIntyre stepped up for their boss, soon to be backed by Shane McMahon, to try to steal the Big Dog’s thunder in order to push their own agendas. Should any one of them strike the Samoan down, they could punch their ticket into chasing the Universal Champion Seth Rollins and take the title for their own. 

They had come close in recent weeks, especially in a handicap bout where Shane had wisely chosen Drew to help him against Reigns. McIntyre’s Claymore kick packed two types of punch: devastating on its own as a firm kick from the Scottish Terminator, but also charged with a Thrall-Breaking impact that disrupted Roman’s access to that power, leaving him defenseless against Drew and Shane when they would double team him. Shane would then taunt Roman with a sloppy attempt at his own Spear, then would continue to steal Thrall by attempting an unprotected Coast To Coast on the helpless Samoan. Drew held Reigns in place, both he and Shane O’Mac taunting this Samoan “Superhero” to do something about their onslaught.

Shane stood on the top rope, ready to strike Reigns down once and for all, only to be stopped by the dark toll of a haunted church bell. The color drained from his face as the arena lights went out, the crowd screaming in anticipation. Was the Son of Cerberus indeed in the building? The lights came up, giving the younger McMahon the answer. 

The crowd exploded at the sight of the Undertaker standing in the ring between Shane and Roman, glare locked on the son of the Chairman. Despite his human age, the half-demon’s glower still pierced, his gnarled hands still steady, his very presence a wall of death magics and thrall energies unmatched by anyone in the company. Not even Roman Reigns on the day of his return could measure. 

Shane risked attacking the Deadman only to pay the price. Drew tried to save Shane at his own peril, sent sprawling from the ring. Roman Reigns could only watch, transfixed, as the legend he defeated at Wrestlemania two years prior stood in the center of the ring, gathering the Thrall stolen from Drew and Shane and magnified by the shock and awe of all in attendance. 

Roman didn’t move, didn’t speak. He only had one word on his mind.

_ Why? _

Why, indeed, would Undertaker do this? The Deadman had refused to die despite the defeat, showing up here and there to put others in their place. He’d had many chances to avenge his loss to Roman but never stepped up to him, never haunted him from a distance, not even entering his mind. None of the supernatural shenanigans aimed at the Big Dog, so his question remained unanswered until Taker reappeared, but never to Roman himself.

“Roman never asked me for my help,” the Son of Cerberus explained a couple of weeks later, “Shane, you fell victim to your own ego. Hubris costs many their souls, and Shane, if you still have yours, I’m here to collect it.”

The Samoan was relieved that Taker wasn’t there to face him again. It would still be a good fight, maybe an even better battle than what they had at Mania. Somehow Roman understood that wouldn’t be their last encounter. But this time, he’d be standing beside the Son of Cerberus. For that, Roman knew, he’d better have his best game ready or more than just Shane’s soul would be taken that night.

Roman had seen the shirts before he came to the arena. Two hounds, both wearing collars, lunging toward all comers. The “Graveyard Dogs”, they were labeled. One wore a thick rope collar with the Undertaker’s symbol hanging from it, the other’s neck wrapped with chains and a spiked collar, Roman’s spearhead logo prominently added. The shirt had its own dark implications as hounds or being servants of Cerberus, but being featured beside one of the most feared opponents in the business is a high honor. The team name had been heard before the show and it gave the Samoan a chill. Still unsettled by this alliance and with not a word spoken between them, he could only march out there to the beat of his music and hope for the best.

Senior referee Mike Chioda had the daunting task of keeping this match in line, his authority not immediately challenged by Drew or Shane as Roman posed for the crowd and mouthed off to his opponents. McIntyre showed considerable restraint as Reigns turned first to the crowd to encourage the “Undertaker!” chant that had already begun, then to the ramp in anticipation of the legend’s arrival.

This night, the church bell tolled five times, not three as many were used to hearing. It did not diminish the reverence of the crowd as the mastermind of three decades of destruction began his deliberate march to the ring under more bluish-purple lights. A full moon drifted slowly across the titantron as the Deadman approached, his duster covered in pocked marks like the craters of the moon above, his hat drawn low to hide his eyes that still flickered with purple energies, the magics and the thrall battling for control within the confines of this mortal body.

Roman backed from the corner where Taker ascended the stairs, where he raised the lights of the entire arena with a deliberate gesture. He entered the ring to stare down Shane and Drew, not turning away when Roman followed his lead. Reigns did back away again as Taker removed his hat and coat in a final act of Ceremony that continued to draw thrall into the ring. The chants only grew louder; only then did the Son of Cerberus dare take his gaze from his opponents to observe his partner, the son of the Wild Samoans who had fought battles both inside and outside the ring, holding stoic to the lack of thrall heading his way. 

Roman offered to start as they saw Shane depart the ring, leaving McIntyre staring them both down. Without a word, Callomah departed the ring, settling in to watch not only Roman, but the Scotsman across from them.

McIntyre had been there a decade prior, groomed and called a “Chosen One” by the Chairman Vince himself. Drew was nowhere near ready for such a moniker, and despite some success fell down the ranks into a comedy act with two others before leaving the company for some proper seasoning. The rumor, if Callomah heard correctly, was that Drew had indeed honed his craft and in time learned more of this wrestling world, having his Eyes Opened while working in the UK. If this was indeed true, Undertaker reasoned, McIntyre should know full well what he actually Sees across the ring. Not just the dark blue shimmer of Roman’s tattoos as his thrall activated for the bout, but the dark purple aura around Taker himself. 

McIntyre paid it no mind and lay into Roman, the two brawling to start. He took advantage of Roman’s bravado early on to pin him in the corner, stomping him flat before allowing Shane a turn. The self-proclaimed “Best in the World” took the advantage and punched at Roman’s shoulders and head, expecting the big Samoan to eventually crumple. Shane’s penchant for showing off his fancy footwork and fancier sneakers cost him dearly as Roman rocked Shane with a thrall-charged right. 

Roman threw Shane to a corner and punched Shane in the head ten times to remind him that such a move doesn’t work on a Samoan; all you do is wake one up and make them angrier. Roman glanced back over his shoulder, whether for approval or critique, only to get a stone-faced response. Reigns kept control of Shane by the arm and Undertaker tagged in.

This wasn’t the first time the Deadman and Shane O’mac had faced off in the ring; they’d seen each other recently enough, at a Hell in a Cell match at a recent Mania, then dozens of times before where Taker faced off against his own bosses in sheer defiance, reminding them that he answered to no one but himself, spoke only when he felt like speaking, and letting his fists say the rest. He pummeled Shane a bit before taunting Drew with a possible tag, only to drag McMahon back in for some hard shoulder blocks before getting tangled up in a corner. The Deadman refused to go down, swinging anew and harder than before. It was enough to startle a seasoned ref like Chioda to move in, only to be repelled back with thrall and a withering glare. The sheer intensity of the unseen “attack” even raised Roman’s eyebrows, and he offered to protect the referee from his tag partner’s wrath.

The Deadman wracked Shane with clotheslines and an Old School before nearly throwing him back to the corner, daring the McMahon to tag in his bodyguard. The Scotsman hesitated under the gaze of the Son of Cerberus; now his words of not fearing the Undertaker rang hollow. Realizing this mistake he still entered the ring, mustering up the courage to look Taker in the eye. 

Drew’s first step gave him impetus to continue his march, toe to toe, nose to nose and eye to eye with the Reaper of Souls himself. He knew his fear exposed but still stood, if slightly shaken, before the man he claimed he wasn’t afraid of. Undertaker returned the gaze; Drew could almost hear that old snarling voice demanding “Who the hell he thought he was” stepping up like that. Roman Reigns himself colored himself impressed, not expecting Drew to maintain his stance after showing such trepidation in that short stride. What lasted mere seconds felt like an hour to McIntyre, losing the staredown only to get in the first swing. 

McIntyre could ill afford to get in a fistfight with one of the best strikers in the business but again he’d been lured by the Deadman. Undertaker could see the silvered flashes of Drew’s thrall trying to ignite, still being extinguished under the sheer weight of Taker’s intimation magics and broadening thrall. A kick only raised the Deadman’s ire; a lariat out of the ring only made Drew’s situation worse. Taker landed square on his feet and dragged Drew to the floor and bruised his kidneys against the ring apron. Drew then slung back under the bottom rope to be flattened by the Deadman’s legdrop.

Roman could only watch, the young fan in him mesmerized by this legend in action. Undertaker moved with the ease of a human half his age, wasting nothing in each motion, each glare, each step. He had to snap out of is quickly as the Deadman’s pinfall attempt failed, and he looked to the Samoan to continue the onslaught. Roman eagerly tagged in, sending Drew to a neutral corner and blasting him with forearm shots and finally flattening the Scottish Psychopath with a big boot. He ignored the nonplussed Shane McMahon on the other side of the ring, who had not lifted a finger to assist Drew in the last few minutes.

The crowd started to roar as Roman prowled to another corner, nodding to them as they knew what came next. Drew struggled to recover as Roman made the Lock and Load gesture, charging up Thrall to be released in a Superman punch across McIntyre’s jaw. His fist struck the mat in a warning, a small wave of that energy sweeping across the ring. Shane took that split second to distract Roman, who swatted the McMahon to the floor. He’d managed to keep the thrall charge from going off on that swing, and having to hold it again to keep Drew at bay. McIntyre used that break in rhythm to send Roman to the ropes, Shane pulling the top rope down and sending Reigns unceremoniously to the floor. 

Undertaker had been in the business too long to let the double-team get the better of him or Roman and marched after Shane. He already knew Roman was okay, noting that the charge still mostly arcing in Roman’s right arm. He stomped to the timekeeper’s area with one demand.

“Give me a chair!”

In Philadelphia, the tradition would demand hundreds of chairs be thrown into the ring and ringside area. No one would dare raise their seat to the Son of Cerberus! An empty chair handed to him, something he likely didn’t need against Shane O’Mac but a good physical exclamation point that any wrestler understood. McMahon bolted for the ramp, his ruse still enough to separate Taker from Roman. Now McIntyre had the dazed Samoan to himself.

Taker cursed under his breath when he heard the distinct clamor of a Samoan’s head against the ring steps. He turned back to the ring in time to see Drew slinging Roman back under the bottom rope to the canvas. The charge still somehow still contained in Reign’s arm message enough for the Deadman to return to his corner, still scrutinizing the action as Shane had come back to steal a pinfall to no avail.

Unable to keep Roman down, Shane rolled back to Drew to have him finish the work. Roman himself used those precious seconds to re-asses himself. He looked to his right hand, which still flickered from the charge he still had loaded up for a Superman punch. He didn’t have time to wind up for it as Drew approached him, and the two traded blows in the center of the ring. 

McIntyre, more focused on his strikes than Roman, did finally get the upper hand and put Roman to the mat. He then grabbed the left arm shifted it around in a few different holds, trying to coerce Roman into discharging the stored thrall without using his signature move. Roman gritted his teeth and growled, only making his arm spark harder and distract him even more. Roman did start expelling some of that thrall, first bracing his body from going completely to the mat, then to try to mitigate some of the pain of his non-Thrall arm, finally shocking Drew at the wrist to at least get him to potentially release the hold. Drew weathered that storm and shifted the hold, but finally started throwing Roman around anew.

Reigns steadied himself enough to catch Drew on the run, scooping up Drew into a Samoan drop. The landing came rough for both men, Roman mistakenly rolling away from his corner. Drew arched his back in pain, also angled away from a stupefied Shane. The match between Roman and Drew was too even, what could the son of a billionaire do? 

Undertaker stoically turned to the crowd, slapping the turnbuckle pad once. The muffled thud unheard by the crowd, Frowning, he repeated the gesture against the broad top of the ringpost, a simple cue to the crowd to begin their rally for Roman. The clapping began in earnest, thrall seeping back to the Big Dog to help him to his feet. His arm still tingled and twinged from the charged up Superman punch, though lessened somewhat with some of the strikes to keep Drew or Shane at bay until he could get the proper windup. He crawled to the ropes to help himself to his feet, costing him a moment as McIntyre stood. 

Roman almost didn’t see Drew charging for him instead of tagging out. He dove clear, feeling the ring rattle as Drew’s massive shoulder slammed the ringpost. Again they both lay on the mat, winded from the extended fisticuffs in the ring. 

Roman had to tag out, he couldn’t hold the charge on his arm much longer and knew he couldn’t get up fully to swing. He lunged for the corner and tagged in Taker, transferring that thrall to the Deadman while the Samoan recovered on the floor. Reigns didn’t know if Callomah was expecting it, but certainly took advantage given the speed of which Undertaker cleared the ring.

The arena quieted as Undertaker surveyed the ring and the grounds around it. The old dog surveying the yard. He climbed out of the ring, stepping past the prone McMahon and ripped the hood off the main announce table. He could hear the Spanish announcers wondering why they weren’t targeted this time as the Deadman made space for Shane’s carcass in front of Michael Cole, Corey Graves and Renee Young. Graves backed toward the Spanish announcers, eyes wide as he could sense Undertaker powering up to powerbomb Shane through the table.

Roman pushed to his feet at the sound of wood smashing against flesh. He knew the difference in sound between a collapsing announce table and a guitar shot. 

Elias.

He rounded the corner to find Shane and Undertaker flat on the floor, pieces of guitar strewn everywhere. The Muse had paused to admire his handiwork, giving Roman the extra seconds to catch up and swat Elias away from the Deadman. The Big Dog hadn’t quite recovered yet but wasn’t about to leave the Deadman out to dry on the numbers game! He pushed Elias back toward the timekeeper’s area, the Muse slow to retaliate. Before Roman could flip Elias into the crowd Drew launched in from another direction, sending the Samoan tumbling with a picture perfect Claymore Thrallbreaker kick. 

As McIntyre recovered, Elias turned his attention back to Undertaker. The Deadman had pushed to his knees, only starting to realize who or what had struck him from behind. The Muse could easily See the aura of the Deadman flaring to life with his anger, and that wrath would be hard enough to weather alone. Elias grabbed the remains of the guitar neck to threaten but couldn’t push through the purplish storm around him. Undertaker’s paw wrapped around his throat, ready to silence the Muse for his transgressions before being interrupted by McIntyre having to expend more energy into a second Claymore Thrallbreaker, one strong enough to silence the Deadman long enough to formulate a plan.

Shane had recovered at this point and gestured with intent. “We’ve already got a cleared table!” He shouted over the crowd and pulling Drew away from the Spanish announcers. “Put him there! Put him there!” 

Elias and Drew quickly moved the barely conscious Callomah to the table, only sending the announcers over the back barricade. Shane hastily climbed the nearest corner to that table, waiting for his assistants to get clear before demolishing the table and Undertaker at the same time with a diving elbow. 

The crowd erupted into a “Holy Shit!” chant, thrall raining down on all five participants. Taker bled from the back, his shoulder cut from stray equipment. Shane still dazed, but still able to follow Drew and Elias back into the ring. The chants faded into boos as the Muse and the Scotsman propped the Deadman in a corner, stuffing a metal garbage can in the Deadman’s face. Again Shane ascended the corner, the boos and thrall only pouring down harder on him, on Drew, on Elias. The self-proclaimed “Best in the World” even called his shot with a Taker-esque throat slash, only intensifying the rage from the audience. 

Roman had only begun to stir at the sound of screams from the crowd. He puzzled that level of fear until he heard the crash of the garbage can against the Undertaker’s prone body. His right fist reflexively clenched, eyes starting to flicker. _ Thrall doesn’t stay broken, _he reminded himself as he pushed up with his left hand, willing his right arm to ignite again. It sparked and sputtered, but erupted at the sound of Elias’ braggadaccio over the ire of the crowd. He cleared the steps on that corner and lunged, landing a Superman punch right between the Muse’s eyes and silencing him for the night. He’d have his own words for Elias but Drew caught Roman mid-taunt, flipping him backward in a leg sweep. 

Shane still marveled that he’d scored his Coast to Coast on the Undertaker, who remained unconscious in the corner. He dragged the Deadman to the center of the ring to make sure that even if Reigns had anything left after Drew attacked, the Big Dog might not get there in time. Shane’s back and tailbone still stung from the rough landing and he could only scoot closer to his prone opponent, hoping to roll across the body and hook the leg, escaping with his soul intact.

Those precious seconds were four or five seconds too long. Shane couldn’t see the smoky, purplish aura around Callomah’s body as it seeped out, stirring those old bones and raising him up once more. Like a reanimated corpse, Undertaker sat straight up, eyes burning in unholy rage - a sight Shane had witnessed many times and still froze in place at the sheer weight of this intimidation. Here is where Callomah became his most dangerous: his thrall and magic taking turns restoring his stamina and strength, rousing him from the unnatural sleep caused by Shane’s hubris. The glare itself held Shane in place long enough for Taker’s hand to find the throat, chokeslamming Shane in violent finality. He wheeled and caught the Muse Elias before he could strike again and chokeslammed the minion with equal ferocity. 

The energies had stirred Roman as well. He clambered up to the apron’s edge, just in time to see Callomah’s signal to finally claim the soul of Shane McMahon - his eyes nothing but white, glowing faintly purple as he drew his thumb across his neck, the howling of the souls he claimed a silent song to the normal ear. The Deadman so focused on his vendetta he had forgotten one very important part of this equation.

He’d forgotten about McIntyre. In his own arrogance the Son of Cerberus did not sense the silvered sparks of the Scottish Terminator’s thrall. He didn’t hear McIntyre’s voice, daring him to turn and take another Thrallbreaker and humiliate the Deadman moments from victory. And if the Deadman didn’t hear him, Drew would certainly not pause this time to stab that Claymore into the Undertaker’s back! The thrall alone from that decisive blow would make him invincible! All he had to do was strike,

Drew lunged.

A brilliant flash of blue caught the corner of Callomah’s eyes. The Deadman wheeled to see Drew McIntyre doubled over on the ground, Roman Reigns already back on his feet and howling triumphantly. Undertaker could only stare, in a rare moment of shock, that he’d left his back completely open and could have paid the ultimate price. And before him, this Son of Wild Samoans howled and whooped over Drew’s carcass, thrall pushing the Scotsman out of the ring.

Roman cut short his celebration when he felt the Undertaker’s gaze upon him. This time, this gaze was not one of anger, of intimidation, of the dark fury that he’d seen across the ring two years ago. Instead, this hardened look could not hide the surprise and hint of … gratitude? From the Deadman in realizing his rare mistake.

Roman had recovered from the Claymore. He’d put himself between the Deadman and danger, much as Callomah did mere weeks ago to stop Shane. Here the circle would close.

Roman hauled Shane off the mat. “DREW’S GONE NOW!” he roared before thrusting the son of a millionaire into Undertaker’s cold grasp. Shane had no time to beg for mercy; not that the Deadman would have given him any. The Deadman’s thrall erupted once more, coaxed on from a raised right hand of his tag team partner, only bolstering the power and force behind the Tombstone Piledriver that would leave Shane laying on the mat. 

Callomah had completed his vendetta to Shane, returning to his feet to face Roman once more. The Son of the Wild Samoans cowed slightly before Callomah, still not fully understanding why this alliance had happened. Why would Undertaker, a loner whose only crime being sired by Cerberus himself, even spend this time to assist when neither owed each other anything? Roman feared the worst, running the match back through his mind. Had he arrived too late to assist? Should he have tried harder to get that Superman Punch off before tagging the Deadman in? Did Undertaker seem slighted by being given thrall in a tag and an assist in a finisher that required no other being’s hand or thrall to destroy? 

Roman couldn’t hide his concern or his gratitude. He’d hoped he’d lived up to all of Undertaker’s expectations, and those were the highest of anyone in the company, higher than any of the McMahons. This was something Roman knew he’d have to earn again and again, and had done so since the two last crossed paths in the ring. Now, he stood before Judgment in human form, the Reaper of Souls, a 30+year journeyman Other who could make or break any man with a single word or gesture. The aged gaze of the Deadman only rooted Roman in place. He could not take a single step closer, so Undertaker closed that distance in a few very deliberate steps. 

Roman’s thrall dissipated quickly. He met the stern gaze of the Deadman with a mix of wonder, deep respect and still that small touch of fear that everyone had, but he did not back down. All Roman wanted at this point was an explanation. He wouldn’t ask, and wouldn’t press. 

Callomah’s stare did not soften; it did recognize there was a question. Roman was asking the only question that needed answering. The Deadman nodded to Roman, and Roman reflexively nodded back. Only now did the Son of Cerberus speak.

**“It’s Your Yard.”**

Undertaker’s right hand landed squarely over Roman’s selfless human heart, nearly jump-starting it with a blast of thrall that should have visibly staggered him. Instead, this time, he was prepared for that power, a badge of respect and honor that translated into a deeper strength, solidified within his thrall aura darkening to a rich midnight blue. His arm crackled from the sudden surge, the aches of the match melting away. Even any damage done by Drew’s Claymore kick smoothed over; this was not demonic energies at all from Callomah, but the faint human warmth given to the man known as Mark Calloway. This was from a man who loved the business as much as Roman did, and respected its lore and secrets great and small. All that power, all those secrets were now entrusted to Roman Reigns. 

This time, Roman was ready. 


	2. Seth Rollins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seth Rollins was a fan long before he became a wrestler. 
> 
> So Raw Reunion night was going to be a wild one for the wrestler... and the fan still inside.

Raw Reunion night appeared to be a new title for “Old School Raw”, a night where WWE would break out the old set and have legends past and present interact with each other. It was a night that all wrestlers looked forward to - a night where the Old guard could look at the current crop of Superstars to see if the future of the WWE would be in good hands, and the current stars hoping for enough free time to sit under a learning tree or two when it came to the legends in attendance.

Seth Rollins could barely contain himself for this night. Wrestlers he watched growing up. Wrestlers that defined eras. Wrestlers that took the WWE from chasing WCW to trampling it in the dust. A virtual Who’s Who in the backstage area, giving Seth a heavy sense of nervous excitement as he entered the building. He didn’t even know where to start looking.

Roman Reigns walked with his little brother, grinning just as wide. This was almost old hat to Roman, who had been raised around other wrestlers because of his dad and uncle, his older brother and his long list of cousins. He still looked forward to the evening, but nowhere near as much as Seth was!

“I don’t know what’s gonna be more fun to watch,” he admitted to Seth, “seeing the other guys marking out like little kids…. Or just you.”

“I’m a fan of just about everybody!” Rollins exclaimed as he bounced around Roman in childlike excitement. “You’ve already seen it - I wear everyone else’s shirts, whether it’s Finn, Becky, Bayley - why won’t you let me wear one of your shirts, man?”

“Don’t you have enough merchandise of your own to hype?” He playfully pushed Seth aside as they continued down the hall. “Tonight’s one of those nights you can get answers man. All the questions you had in your head as a kid - stuff that you didn’t know how to ask, who to ask or if you thought there’d even be an answer!”

Seth fell back in step with Roman, curious of that. “What kinda questions? I mean, haven’t we answered a lot of em because of - “

“Well, if Ricky Steamboat’s here, gonna ask him if he’s really a dragon? Who do we ask about George ``The Animal’ Steele? Does Jake Roberts use thrall to control his snakes? Questions like that, man.”

This only made Seth bounce around faster, coming up with questions about a lot of those old-time wrestlers. “I’m gonna run out of time before I run outta questions!” Seth happily admitted to his big brother.

“Lemme save you an hour - steer clear of Hogan and Flair, something tells me all they do is steal thrall!” They shared a laugh as they entered their locker room to dress for the show.

Roman took his time this evening, knowing he did have a match on his plate. He smirked as he watched his little brother suit up in record time, fussing with his wrist wraps and trying to hide a pair of black gloves that hadn’t left his bag since April. Reigns sighed but understood - those were his Shield gloves, and this reunion night was going to be tough enough without Dean. Seth still spoke of Dean fondly in private even if he came across a little harsh online. It frustrated Rollins that everyone took his words as threats and insults when all he was talking about was competition. He hadn’t spoken to Dean in a couple of weeks (wild Mox tearing up the G1 Climax tournament) and hadn’t had much luck getting a text from him. The missing brother would have to wait! 

He had one foot out to door to run to catering only to be stopped by the stage manager who was just about to knock. “You’re gonna need to warm up for later,” he told Seth. “You’re having a match with AJ Styles after your Miz TV interview.” 

Seth blinked. All these legends in the house AND he gets to wrestle the United States Champion? He turned back to Roman with a giant grin before turning back to the stagehand. 

“So I’m taking Ricochet’s place tonight?”

“Ricochet’s not here,” The stagehand informed Seth. 

“Got it,” he tried to reply without sounding excited. “Still start of third hour?”

“So far,” The stage manager nodded. “Good luck tonight.”

Seth completely forgot about catering and shut the door, hopping up and down and crazy dancing around the locker room. “AJ STYLES! I GET TO FIGHT AJ STYLES!!”

“Easy, easy,” Roman laughed. “Save some of that energy for the match tonight. And you sure about fighting AJ when he’s got backup?”

“He can bring the Club if he wants! I’m gonna Stomp him so hard that soccer mom hair’s gonna land on Gallows’ dome!” 

Roman continued to shake his head. “Just be careful, you’ll be outnumbered but probably not outgunned.”

“Oh, that’s the beauty of all this! AJ Styles is BLIND! Remember on the plane ride when Demon Balor - “

“And AJ didn’t see a thing,” Reigns finished for him. “Gallows and Anderson, I’m not so sure. Just be careful.” 

Rollins proudly posed before his big brother, letting a flicker of blue thrall cross over his right eye. “I got this.”

\---------------------------------------------

AJ Styles couldn’t be happier or prouder to have his buddies back on TV. Gallows and Anderson had spent way too much time running around house shows if they were on the road at all! They inspired AJ to get back on his horse and pull down the US Champion from that flippity floppity Ricochet, a belt he hadn’t held in a while. He also savored a new round of merchandise that he and his Good Brothers could share in the profits.

“I think we got a celebration tonight, boys!” He cheered as he stood with Luke Gallows and Karl Anderson backstage. “Except I’m not talkin about all that ‘Raw Reunion’ thing. I’m talkin about US!”

“Bring it in,” Karl gestured along.

“I’m talking about the O.C.!” Styles announced. “I’m talkin about the Original! The Official! The ONLY Club that matters!”

“That’s because WE,” Anderson continued, “we run Monday Nights! Not these so-called legends who came to Raw Reunion and try to steal our spotlight!” 

“And CERTAINLY,” Gallows finished, “No member of the Raw roster can try to make a name for themselves at the O. C.‘s expense!”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” AJ put a gloved hand to his larger brother’s chest. “Surely to God you’re not talking about Seth Rollins!”

Anderson leveled an accusing point to Gallows. “I think he is.” Gallows just shrugged.

Styles could only chuckle and shrug his own shoulders. “I’m gonna beat him tonight!” he confirmed. “But I’ll tell you what - IF he gets up, and if he wants some more I say we make a statement!” Anderson and Gallows nodded, knowing exactly where AJ was going. “I say we show the world that we’re the most Dominant group in the WWE!” 

The Good Brothers nodded and chuckled along. “Then, Now, and Forever,” Styles mocked as he looked back and forth to them. “Is the O. C. Now throw it up there boys!”

The three toasted with their “Too Sweet” Salute - not to be mistaken for heavy metal horns. Pinching the middle and ring finger to the thumb, pointing finger and pinky straight up. They tagged well above AJ and Anderson’s head before a celebratory “throwing it down” lead them into cheering themselves on.

It was gonna be a fun night.

\------------------------------------------

Seth wandered the backstage area, exchanging hellos and handshakes with many of the legends in attendance. He talked up Ron Simmons about football; picked Santino Marella’s brain about gyms and schools. He kinda hoped that Ricky Steamboat was in the building just so he could pull him aside and ask him some… unusual questions.

It was something that he and Roman talked about when they rode together. Being able to see all this new energy, seeing how and where Thrall erupts and figuring out the hows and whys of it - what did some of the older wrestlers Know or See? And was Ricky Steamboat an actual dragon? They’d run afoul of angels, demons, fae - why not a dragon? Roman claimed that Daniel Bryan may be one, Shinsuke Nakamura certainly eccentric enough to be one, and Rob Van Dam just flat out didn’t age, so maybe…? Steamboat would have been the coolest to get that answer. 

He’d lost himself in his thoughts again as a distinct _ whoosh _caught his ear, and a rush of wind ruffled his hair. A firm hand clapped him on the shoulder, making him jump and turn to the arrival.

The other man wore a mask, but was no luchador. This other man adorned in black and brilliant green, a black cape draped over his arms but this black didn’t not scream “villain”. Rather, Seth Rollins had been surprised by Monday Night Raw’s Friendly Neighborhood Superhero, the Hurricane. 

Seth knew Shane “Hurricane” Helms in passing but was well aware of his accomplishments in WCW and WWE. Seth also remembered that Shane was part of the North Carolina crew that had apparently been exposed to _ something _that messed with their minds. The Hardyz had long used that power for their longevity in the ring, but in recent years it mentally Broke Matt, leaving Jeff the saner brother? Shannon Moore still bounced around indies, bathed in tattoos and piercings, looking nothing like the fresh-faced kid that danced with Shane and Evan Karagis in their boy band faction, 3-count. 

When Helms came to the WWE after WCW closed down, Stone Cold Steve Austin put the idea in his head that he could be a superhero, based solely on a Green Lantern tattoo on the OMEGA alumni’s shoulder. The rest, they say, is history.

“Citizen Architect!” Hurricane began in his over-the-top superhero voice. “Your mind wanders and wonders in the presence of all those who came before you. I know you’re up to something! You might be planning on pursuing all these legends through the night! Or you might be just thinking too hard about your later altercation with that Georgia villain AJ Styles! _ Wassupwiddat~?!” _He gesticulated wildly before folding his arms and locking stares with Seth.

Rollins put his hands up in partial surrender, letting this whirlwind settle in front of him. But indeed, the Architect’s mind did stumble across some questions that he could ask. He made a huge show of looking around to make sure they were out of earshot of others before he addressed the superhero in front of him.

“Look man, speaking superhero to superhero, I’m not trying to ruffle any feathers tonight. If anyone wants to get better in this business, they have to be asking the questions, alright? And since you’re standing right here, I got a couple of questions for you.”

“Any opportunity to impart my Hurri-wisdom!” Helms proudly posed. “Ask away!”

Seth’s smirk turned upward in a harsh angle before he once again let his thrall flicker over his right eye, a little brighter this time. Hurricane blinked acknowledgment of that little flare. Nodding, Seth felt more comfortable asking his question.

“Do you still … train superheroes?” Seth danced around his real question, and that was in regard to Roman’s older brother, who was Hurricane’s tag team partner over a decade ago. Rosey had passed just after Wrestlemania a couple of years ago and the Architect couldn’t bring himself to ask Roman about it.

“‘Train’ other superheroes?” Hurricane repeated the question in astonishment. “You already have a resource in your brother in arms, Roman Reigns!” He pointed at Seth with firm intent. “Recall my sidekick, Citizen Roosevelt! He had led a life of crime, crushing innocent performers underfoot at the command of the despicable Eric Bischoff! When Rosey no longer had an accomplice, Citizen Roosevelt stood at a crossroads. Eric Bischoff didn’t want him anymore and everyone saw him as a bully and a ne’er do well.

“You know what I saw? Potential. Samoans are mostly pure-hearted souls, with superhuman strength and noggins that just can’t be knocked. So I spoke to him, offered him that second chance, trained him to be what he should have been all along - a bona fide Super Hero.”

“So you could see… that in him?” Seth pointed to his right eye again.

“Oh, it was there- it just needed a boost. A boost of confidence. A boost of morale and understanding of how good a good deed truly felt! With that taking the bully burden off his shoulders, he could truly fly and fight at my side!”

“So did you -”

“Let’s just say some boosts don’t come from a good word or deed.” Again Hurricane clapped Seth on the shoulder. This time Seth felt a shock of energy from the gesture, and he jumped a little higher this time. He looked to Hurricane’s hand, following it all the way back to the masked face, where he could see a flicker of dark green energy in the eyes.

“You have your Grand Mission at Summerslam against a Beast!” He reminded Seth. “And tonight, someone who calls himself ‘phenomenal’ needs to be reminded that doesn’t make him invincible, oh no! He is NOT the True Phenom, the Son of Cerberus himself!” 

“And you saw -”

“What I saw, what Citizen Roosevelt saw? Supernatural wars that we could only hold at bay until new heroes could come! Heroics that inspired Roman Reigns to be a superhero in his own right! And I would hope that his closest allies,” he looked Seth up and down, “can be super heroes as well!” 

Before Seth could utter another word, Hurricane indeed flew off into the rafters, leaving Seth slack-jawed and wide eyed. 

  
  


\-------------------------------------

**“BURN IT DOWN~!!!” **The crowd roared in unison.

Seth Rollins will never turn down a chance to get that boost from the crowd. Before his Eyes were Opened he thought adding that to the pause in his entrance music superfluous; he hadn’t had it there when he got his own music a couple of years prior, but now? A guaranteed Thrall Boost as part of his entrance, which he could build on from MizTV to his bout with AJ Styles later that night. 

It still felt a little weird to be “welcomed” to MizTV, given Miz’s history with Seth and with the Shield. A history of ganging up on each other with allies, with weapons, with words that people still discussed to this day. A hint of sadness slipped through Seth’s senses, wishing he could even discuss this on air, but with Dean - err, Mox - off making bank in Japan and the indies, that would be a big company no-no.

“Seth, you have had a rollercoaster of a week! I mean, just last Monday you outlasted nine other All-Stars in a cross-branded Battle Royale to secure your opportunity at Summerslam.”

Miz gestured to the titantron, where all assembled watched a recap of the Extreme Rules match and what followed. Seth frowned a little as one important part of the match had been ignored for this segment…. _ How _he’d been able to rally and finish off Corbin to ensure that he and Becky retained their titles. Selfishly, he wanted to watch his expressions shift from surprise to despair to rage. He wanted to watch himself splatter Baron Corbin all over the mat. Seth’s thrall had gotten away from him and taken him over completely, and he remembered nothing until he pinned Corbin and hastily crawled to the ropes to check on Becky.

Instead he relived the nightmare that he DID remember of that night - Lesnar’s music. Heyman holding the briefcase up like an ancient artifact. Lesnar suplexing the daylights out of Rollins and THEN calling his cash-in, and he fell to a Blind Beast. Heyman HAD to know something about thrall to have orchestrated this so well. 

Rollins put on his bravest face and forced a smile as the lights came back up in the arena. Even a small chuckle escaped him, which puzzled Miz enough to ask about it.

“What’s funny,” Rollins responded, “Is that you called the biggest match of my life a ‘predicament’. Hey, I get it, it’s Brock Lesnar…” he paused. “Wait, I gotta do that again, it’s more like this..”

Seth hunched his shoulders and put as much bass into his voice as comically possible, trying to do Paul Heyman’s version of it. “BRROCK LESNURRR!” He pushed to his feet and shook out his cheeks to do it again. “BRBRBRBRBRBRBRBRBRBRRROCK! LESNURBRBRBRRR!” he exaggerated for the crowd’s amusement. The smile slowly returned to his face.

“Alright? I mean, it’s Brock Lesnar, he’s like this big… thing and he’s on your TV screen…” Seth brought up his shoulders and his arms, trying to simulate the larger-than-life physique of the Beast in question. “And he’s got this big ol face on him -” Seth scrunched his face and voice - “and he’s got these beady little eyes and his gritty little teeth! And then he’s got this big red head and-” 

Seth couldn’t keep that up much longer. “I mean, he’s a real Godzilla looking bastard if you ask me.” He shrugged and returned to his seat. “I mean, I get it, who wouldn’t wanna be Brock Lesnar? Who wouldn’t want that strength?” _ Even if Roman’s stronger than him, _Seth mentally added.

“Who wouldn’t want that power, that speed?” he continued. _ Even if I’m faster than him. _

“Who wouldn’t wanna be Brock Lesnar? I can tell you who, Mike,” Seth answered his own question. “Me. I don’t wanna be Brock Lesnar, I’m not a Brock Lesnar wanna-be…” he lost himself in thought. “Matter of fact, Brock Lesnar is a Seth Rollins wanna-be.” 

Miz glanced back to the audience, for once speechless. Seth knew he’d have to elaborate-

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” 

Both turned to the stage at the bold, but recognized interruptive voice of one Paul Heyman, he who spoke for the current Universal champion. He appeared on the giant monitor, still standing near the entranceway to the ramp

“My name is…..” he began.

“Paul Heyman,” the crowd continued in somewhat bored resignation.

He didn’t follow his traditional introduction, smirking as the crowds parroted his typical intro. “My name is Seth Rollins’ dose of reality! Because your dose of reality is - “ Heyman shook his head, flabbergasted at the notion - “Brock Lesnar is a Seth Rollins -- You look in the mirror and you see THAT! Brock Lesnar looks in the mirror, the Reigning, Defending, Undisputed Universal Heavyweight Champion and you think??” 

Paul almost started laughing. “And please, don’t - don’t start bitching about Brock Lesnar cashing the Money in the Bank contract against you! Because YOU did that to Brock Lesnar at Wrestlemania 31!”

“Yes I did, Paul!” Seth interrupted. He wanted to rub it in Heyman’s face that he didn’t NEED to pin Lesnar, he didn’t WANT to pin Lesnar! He’d sooner pin his own brother, good or bad, because he knew what Roman could do! 

“And you know what?” Seth continued before Paul could refute it, “It took him FOUR YEARS to return the favor! And you know WHY? Because he’s a Seth Freakin Rollins WANNA-BE!” 

The crowd approved. Heyman, of course, did not.

“Don’t you move! Stay RIGHT There!” Heyman stormed toward the stage.

“I’m not going anywhere!” Seth smirked and shrugged at Miz before turning back to the ramp.

Heyman stood at the top of the ramp, making sure he locked eyes with Rollins. He wasn’t about to be out-mic’d by this little farmboy upstart who thought he could beat Brock in a regular fight. “Listen,” Heyman growled, “This is the very LAST time I- “

“No Paul!” Seth shouted the advocate down. “This is the last time and the ONLY time I’m gonna tell you this! You wanna come out here and Talk the Talk for Brock Lesnar? Then you better be prepared to Walk the Walk for Brock Lesnar!” 

Paul’s expression changed slightly as Seth steeled, a faint dark blue aura of thrall igniting across his body and a shadowy crosshair appearing over his right eye. Seth didn’t react to Heyman’s expression; now he Knew that Heyman Understood these energies, and might even be able to See them. “I’m gonna give you five seconds,” he continued, “and then I’m gonna walk up that ramp and I’m gonna Stomp your head through it, you hear me??”

Heyman’s express feigned confidence even if the advocate himself was taking a couple of steps back.

“FIVE!” Seth threatened.

“WAitwaitwaitwait wait!” Heyman held up a hand for calm. “Sir,” he addressed Rollins, “I’m just an Advocate.”

“FOUR THREE TWO ONE-” Seth had lost his patience. His thrall flared brighter, a greater warning to Heyman as he slipped through the ropes. Heyman spooked, abandoning his microphone and running for the back.

Rollins simply watched, hoping to see if he scared Paul Heyman to the point of ruining a good pair of navy blue suit pants. He watched the ramp for an extra few seconds to make SURE Heyman wasn’t coming back. He exhaled in relief and satisfaction.

“You know,” he said as he turned back to Miz, “for almost 20 years, Paul Heyman has been billing Brock Lesnar as a conqueror. As the Beast.” Seth shook his head in calm objection. “Brock Lesnar is not a Conqueror. Brock Lesnar is not a Beast, Brock Lesnar is a man. And any man can lose. 

“At Summerslam I will face Brock Lesnar with his Universal Title on the line! And Brock Lesnar… will _ lose.” _

The crowd applauded in approval. Satisfied, Seth turned his own volume back up. “As for tonight, Let’s talk about tonight Mikey!” He turned back to Miz. “I don’t get ready for the biggest match of my life by resting, because I am not like Brock Lesnar, I get ready by facing the best of the best!” 

He faced Miz, who merely lounged in his director’s chair. “So tonight,” Rollins announced, “I’m going one-on-one with the Phenomenal AJ Styles! And Tampa, Florida, IT IS TIME to Ignite the fire and - “

**“BURN! IT! DOWN!” **Seth shouted along with the crowd. 

\---------------------------------------------------

Rollins had almost an hour of downtime from the Miz TV segment before heading out there for his match. Roman threw him out of their locker room when Seth couldn’t slow down. Seth almost got thrown back in the locker room by the film crew when he chased them instead of chasing all the 24/7 matches around. His smile didn’t stop no matter how loud they yelled at him. 

Stagehands finally herded the Architect toward gorilla when AJ’s music started playing. He wasn’t deterred by the music. He didn’t slow when they “Too Sweet”’d each other. He almost dove through the curtain when his own music hit. Somehow, Seth slowed his own march to the ring, soaking in the crowd and eyeing AJ’s backup all the way to the ring.

He hated being outnumbered. He had Dean and Roman in the back of his mind as he pulled his shirt off before the match began. Despite plenty of downtime after his match with Samoa Joe, Roman didn’t look to be in any big hurry to rescue his little brother. Dean may as well be on another planet. Seth toyed with the thought there’d be a legend or two that might come out and assist him, but dismissed it with a smirk on his face. _ This is one night I have to stand up to big odds, maybe that’ll shut up Paul Heyman some more, _he thought as the bell finally rang.

The two locked up right away, matching power to start. Seth transitioned quickly to a headlock and secured it, holding in place despite Styles’ attempt to shake him off. Styles freed himself only to be floored with a hard shoulder block from Rollins. AJ quickly rolled to the apron, making sure Gallows and Andersron stood nearby. 

As much as Seth wanted to pursue, he held back. Gallows’ strength and Anderson’s skill on top of AJ’s already established experience couldn’t be countered all at once. He hoped ref Rod Zapata could keep the Good Brothers on better behavior. Rollins knew all too well that wouldn’t last the entire match, but wanted to get as far into it as he could before everything went wrong.

The distraction proved enough for AJ to take over the match. Having Gallows and Anderson just standing out there watching the match would be enough to get Seth Rollins lost in his own head. AJ forced Seth off his feet for a few seconds before shoving him into the corner and dishing out a blistering chop to the chest. Seth barely hesitated and swung back. The two traded chops to the delight of the crowd, AJ trying to keep control on Rollins.

Seth used the exchange to target AJ, his Precision Strike recommending a shot to the face. _ Of course it’d be his big mouth, _he thought as he caught AJ with a quick forearm. Styles reeled from the blow, landing in the corner with the rest of the room spinning. He closed quickly and stomped AJ til shoved away by the ref. He circled a moment before charging again, this time letting AJ try to vault him out of the ring. Seth landed square on the apron and hung AJ on the top rope to keep him backpedaling. 

Seth hoped to get an aerial move on AJ but might have telegraphed it. He caught Karl Anderson out of the corner of his eye and backed him off the apron with a glare. He didn’t have time to get back to his attempt as AJ charged, shoving Seth off the apron and partway up the ramp. 

AJ took a moment to admire his opponent on the floor as Luke Gallows rounded the corner to see for himself. Karl nodded to AJ, and the US Champ rolled clear of the ring to take his own advantage. He nodded to the Good brothers and slowly approached the prone Seth, enjoying the slow panic drawing over their opponent’s face.

Seth’s panic dropped to a scowl. He knew this was coming and fell right into that trap. Neither of the Good Brothers had touched him, giving the ref zero reason to throw them out. The ref didn’t even leave the ring to stop AJ; he shouted orders and threatened to start the count out. Those three didn’t listen. Seth didn’t want to win this on a double count-out, and knew that if he got up to fight he’d get a disqualification win. That’s not how he wanted to go out.

All four froze as music erupted from the ramp, the arena suddenly bathed in a neon green. AJ’s eyes peeled away from Seth to look up to the ramp. Seth himself still had not moved. He _ knew _that music. Any fan of wrestling should know that music. Music of what might be a bygone era, but one that still captured a spirit of rebellion and chaos that had drawn Seth to the wrestling business in the first place. Rebellion and chaos that the Shield had done in the past to establish their legacy in the present day wrestling landscape

Rebellion and chaos that Degeneration X used to shake up their landscape almost two decades before. A stable now represented by multiple Hall of Famers. The crowd erupted, a fresh wave of thrall washing past the four of them and up the ramp, then suddenly turning back to sweep over…. Seth? Even through the ruckus of the crowd he heard footsteps approaching him from behind. AJ and his boys hadn’t moved. Seth pushed quickly to his feet and faced the new arrivals. 

His jaw dropped even with the musical warning. This wasn’t his boss and his buddy standing there; this was two men from Seth’s childhood standing there. 

Triple H and Shawn Michaels. Two legends of the squared circle. Multiple time champions, Wrestlemania main eventers. Two men who were part of a group of determined performers that dragged the then-WWF out from under WCW’s shadow to re-establish the company as the top wrestling organization in the world.

“The Game” and “The HeartBreak Kid” now stood at Seth Rollins’ side to help him against the OC? Did AJ knock him unconscious? This couldn’t be real. _ How _could this be real? Getting backup from two childhood heroes? Boss or not, Triple H being at his side against AJ and company is a dream come true. And Shawn Freakin’ Michaels? Someone he’s been compared to occasionally, now has his back? The eight-year-old Seth inside was doing cartwheels and that little kid’s smile erupted on Seth’s face. It wasn’t a smile of arrogance or one-upsmanship, not this time. THIS was the smile of a fan whose heroes had come out to help him even things up. 

As if their mere presence wasn’t enough, now the thrall started to sink in. These two veterans backing him up had some of those cheers directing Seth Rollins’ way, only adding to the excitement he felt with the two legends at his side. The boost gave Seth fresh energy as the Good Brothers retreated and AJ returned to the ring. 

Everything around Seth started slowing down for him. He effortlessly leapt up to the apron and re-engaged against Styles, barely feeling the strikes from his opponent and barely stunned from AJ dropping him across the rope in retaliation from earlier. He ducked the follow up attack, dropping AJ to the mat with a Sling blade. Styles snapped to his feet in frustration and blindly charged, taking a boot to the face and a Blockbuster neckbreaker from Rollins. With that much thrall and childhood excitement coursing through his system it felt almost TOO easy! He had seconds to spare to climb out of the ring, vaulting at the standing Styles and hitting a glancing blow across AJ’s face with his knee. He landed and wheeled, putting everything into a Superkick that he hoped would make Shawn Michaels proud.

Gallows and Anderson stepped back from the ring, dismayed from the boost Seth got from his legendary backup. They didn’t know how they’d explain it to Styles, who never understood the concepts of this power, dismissing it out of hand as “popularity” or “adrenaline”. Anderson had both hands on his head, biting his tongue; AJ Styles had the same amount of time to recover from the unexpected arrival. AJ had cardio for days. His speed comparable to Seth’s but Styles just couldn’t keep up! Seth had Styles dead to rights, and took a moment to mock the Good Brothers with the “Burn! It! Down!” stomps directly in their faces. 

Gallows nor Anderson would take that level of disrespect no matter who backed Rollins up. They caught his ankles before he could Stomp AJ and climbed into to pound Seth into the mat. AJ rolled clear as he heard the bell being rung for the disqualification, planning on helping his Good Brothers with teaching Seth a lesson or two! He wheeled to see Gallows and Anderson back to their feet. 

Hunter and Shawn had also entered the ring, looking the Good Brothers off as they helped the dazed Architect back to his feet. AJ stood as well, Gallows and Anderson initially shielding him from the other trio. This didn’t sit too well with AJ. 

“Whoa!!” He ordered as he stepped ahead of the safety of his boys, “Hold on!” He continued as he looked to diffuse the situation. Seth had almost caught his breath as he watched his opponent gesture to Shawn and Hunter.

“You’re one of us!” he declared, his Good Brothers nodding along. “We’re just like you guys,” he clarified, pointing out the two veterans. 

“We’re like who?” Shawn casually turned to his best friend. Hunter didn’t answer as AJ stuck his right hand out, pinching his middle and ring finger to his thumb and raising it up. Anderson and Gallows followed AJ’s lead and replicated the gesture, nodding to Seth’s backup. Shawn looked again before looking at Hunter, who turned to Seth. 

Rollins really didn’t have an answer to that. “He’s not wrong,” Seth admitted with a little fear in his voice. “You guys are all part of that, I wasn’t - “

“You know what that means, then,” Hunter informed his former protege.

“Aw come on, Hunter, you can’t be -” 

Seth felt cut off by the looming of a karma hammer. He gaped as both Hunter and Shawn returned the gesture, the hand sign they had made infamous as part of the notorious Kliq that spanned across Degeneration X and the New World Order factions. Seth backed up from that gathering, fully expecting all five of them to beat him into a fine paste and left for dead in the middle of the ring. He slowly backed to the ropes, arms up in partial surrender. 

He didn’t notice a glance exchanged between his two guardians, who chose not to touch hands with these three upstarts, Instead, they happily insulted the trio with their other signature gesture - the cross-handed crotch chop! The three of them gawked in disbelief, prompting Seth to launch at AJ and throw him clean out of the ring before Gallows or Anderson could act. 

Shawn struck next, sending Anderson sprawling out of the ring before turning to assist Hunter in eliminating Gallows. Again Seth had to pinch himself. Not only had two of his childhood heroes stand beside him for the match, they didn’t turn on him despite a round of “Too Sweet”s back in the Manhattan Center a couple of years ago? He circled the ring with his two idols, confidence flooding back. 

Only now had AJ lost his temper. He stormed over to the timekeeper’s area and hefted three steel chairs from there, tossing them in the direction of his compatriots in an attempt to reclaim the ring. Michaels taunted them from the corner, only bolstering their collective anger.

AJ slammed the apron with his chair in defiance of DX, ordering Gallows and Anderson to cut off two more sides to the ring. Only now did Shawn’s confidence falter; Hunter stood firm, Seth flanking his boss as the OC returned to the apron, each with a chair in hand. It was a tactic Rollins recognized and used to perfection with his brothers in the Shield. This time, even with two legends, they might be outgunned. Seth prepared for another speed attack, hoping to clear Gallows from the apron before taking another shot at Styles. Shawn could handle Karl and Hunter could back either one up. Nothing to worry about... Right?

Again the bright green lights flashed through the arena, a question erupting over the speakers.

“OH, YOU DIDN’T KNOW? YOU BETTER CALL SOMEBODYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY~!”

Seth was again flat-footed and the OC paused in their attack. The arena exploded with new energies as four more men strode out, more faces from Seth’s peak viewing years. None of them needed weapons; one was wielding a mic.

“CUT THE MUSIC!” He shouted into the mic and into the crowd. “Now you know me, the D-O-Double G! And by my side-” He gestured to the smallest of the troupe emerging - “is the X to the P to the A to the C! AKA, ‘1, 2, 3’!” 

Road Dogg then pointed behind him to a gent in a black and white t-shirt and suit coat. “And right behind him is big Scott Hall! AKA, Razor Ramon!”

Scott Hall brought his shoulders up to ‘glide’ a little to the ring as Road Dogg introduced the largest of the team.

“And he didn’t come alone! Because right behind him, is Big Daddy Cool, Diesel! AKA, Big Sexy! AKA - you can just call him ‘Kevin’!” 

Nash gave the crowd the Diesel salute while Road Dogg did a quick headcount. “And if I’m correct with my math,” he continued with a point skyward, “With Chyna’s spirit, that count’s at about seven!” He blinked. “Crap, I forgot Billy…” 

AJ’s jaw had yet to come up from his chest. It didn’t make any sense to him - these are the same guys that he shared salutes with, guys he’d looked up to before he’d started in the biz, leaving a United States Champion high and dry to a high-flyer who’d lost his Universal title to a part timer? 

Seth was similarly stymied at the sight of these six men - guys who fought on both sides of the Monday Night Wars, doing it for the money and ‘the boys’ and each other. Rollins felt very, very small under the sheer heft of the aura these men had.

“Now math ain’t my strong suit,” Road Dogg continued after poorly crunching the numbers, “But hey OC! Lemme introduce you to the OG’s! Degeneration X and the Kliq!”

Again the “2sweet” salutes came up from X-pac, Michaels, Hunter and Scott Hall. Again the crowd cheered, thrall raining down on the entire ring, maybe moreso to the side Seth stood with the others. He could only look back and forth at what must be the third or fourth dream he’s had while standing in the ring, at least two in the last five minutes! He didn’t _ want _ to wake up now!

“Now boys,” Road Dogg addressed the OC directly now, “My advice to you is to get to steppin, and get to steppin quick!” 

Seth could only sleepwalk through this further fever dream as Road Dogg, X-pac, Scott Hall and Kevin Nash joined Hunter and Shawn in the ring as AJ, Gallows and Anderson backed down. He couldn’t hear what idle threats were coming from Styles; it didn’t matter. The words didn’t matter, the threats didn’t matter. Gallows’ and Anderson’s glares didn’t matter. Seth was in the ring with people who changed the industry, men who paved the way for some farm boy from Iowa to chase a dream and live it. He shared a ring with the guys who made a lot of people happy, made some people mad, but made this industry much as it was today. 

As the OC retreated, Road Dogg picked up the mic again. “Hey, do you - “ he pointed to Hunter, then thought better about asking him. “Hey Kid, how about - “ he seemed lost in the question. Dogg then turned to Michaels. “Shawn, how about - “ again he paused, looking over his friends in the ring and the starry-eyed kid in the center of it all. 

“No,” Road Dogg decided, “Seth, _ you _do the honors.” 

Seth again blinked in consternation; what ‘honors’? Road Dogg ceremoniously dropped to a knee, offering up the microphone. He reached for it, the crowd again slowly coming to life. Again the little kid in Seth was dancing. He was going to get to say something that almost every wrestling fan has wanted to shout at a teacher, a boss, a parent, anyone who hated their antics but couldn’t do a damn thing to stop them. He was gonna get to say _ that?? _ He looked around to the legends in the ring, each with an encouraging smile, a coaxing gesture to make sure that he was up for such a monumental task. 

Seth’s grip tightened on the mic and he set his feet so he didn’t topple from the effort he had to make. He only gets one shot at this, he had to make it count. He took a couple of deep breaths and prayed for his voice not to crack.

“HEY OC!!” He shouted into the mic with all the defiance he could muster, “IF YOU’RE NOT DOWN WITH THAT, I GOT TWO WORDS FOR YA~”

**“SUCK IT!!” **The crowd joined in as everyone else in the ring gave the OC a crotch chop sendoff.

The cheers erupted as the Degeneration X music started up again and the long time friends embraced each other in the impromptu reunion. Seth again could only watch, the shy little kid around these veterans. All of their shenanigans, on and off screen, entertaining millions around the world with the energy and enthusiasm Seth himself had tried so hard to inject into his own work. The fact that these six men drew so much thrall to the ring without so much as throwing punches; just the nostalgia, the memories and their accomplishments enough.

“Nice job kid,” Seth heard Road Dogg say, thinking that he was addressing X-pac. After a moment he saw Road Dogg’s hand reaching for him instead. He took the handshake graciously.

“Thank you, I was honored,” Seth managed. He remained awestruck as Road Dogg joined his buddies in a group hug, wishing he could be in there.

As if he had asked aloud, Road Dogg waved him in. “C’mon kid, you were a part of this too!”

“Wait, me? But-”

“Seth, c’mere!” Hunter half-ordered, waving Seth into that circle. “You were part of it, get in here!”

Seth’s eyes couldn’t get any wider - nor could his smile. He almost leaped into the group hug, hiding his head amongst them so the audience couldn’t see the happiest tears pour out of his eyes. He lost himself in the celebratory chatter with these guys, unable to get a word in between.

He had felt all that thrall coming in from the crowd, and felt it continuing to flood in. It somehow intensified in the embrace, a shimmer of brilliant green forming within the circle he had now joined. He caught a knowing glance from Hunter; everyone else seemed caught up in the moment to not notice this thrall easing away from these retired wrestlers and drifting in Seth’s direction. With a nod from Triple H that sphere wrapped itself around Seth like a bundle of green bandages, over his chest and his heart, up and down his back tattoo and across his arms wrapped around these allies who had accepted him in their circle. The green around Seth started to blend with his own dark blue thrall, fusing into a deep teal blue that faded into his body and only bolstered his confidence.

He’d bragged about being the Future of WWE. The past embraced more than the concept. It had literally embraced him and gave him permission to BE the Future.


	3. Jon Moxley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean Ambrose has plenty of stories.
> 
> This is Jon Moxley back in the spotlight.

“If you’ve learned ANYTHING from the Shield, what the Shield is about - it’s about kickin down doors, it’s about taking what is yours! It’s about not taking ‘no’ for an answer! If somebody tries to tell you that you can’t do somethin - that you can’t be the thing that you see yourself being - you stick your middle finger high in the air and you march forward and you tell em THE SHIELD SAID SO! ” 

-Dean Ambrose, _ The Shield: Final Chapter _

Had it only been a month since he said those words? He’d traveled since then, a stint in the UK, then popping up here and there at independent events. A palate cleanser for him, it seemed. 

He didn’t tell Renee where he was going that night. He didn’t tell his brothers. He hid in the bowels of the MGM Grand Garden arena, sneaking food from catering while the rest of the boys were watching the main event. 

It was about time that he listened to himself, now that those words had returned to him.* He nodded absently to himself as he walked through an empty concourse, bottle of water in hand. 

He remembered this “Dean Ambrose” and knew a lot of people knew Dean. But sometimes he’d hear another name, especially when they worked shows in the Midwest or in Philly.

Mox. 

How many people knew Mox? How many people remember _ that _Mox, the silver-tongued deathmatch guy who felt no pain, showed no fear and could not be stopped, and in many cases even slowed down? How many of them remembered Mox? Technically that name hadn’t been officially spoken in over a decade. 

He made a bet to himself. He guessed that there were those who remembered, even if he stood a thousand or more miles away from his original wrestling stomping grounds of Cincinnati. This was Vegas. This is where Lady Luck’s fickle fingers could tap at your shoulders or reach for your feet. He’d lived here long enough and lived through enough to see which it would be tonight.

The crowd was hot. That’s a good sign. Maybe it was easier with big names like Chris Jericho and Kenny Omega in the ring. Two of the best all-around guys on the planet. Jericho mocked Omega as only he could, referring to himself as “Alpha”. If there was EVER a time to crash a party, this was it. He paused a few more moments, however, as Jericho bragged about his victory.

“Listen!” Jericho addressed the crowd as Omega lay unconscious near him. “Be quiet!” Jericho ordered, knowing they’d only grow louder with ire. “For months I’ve been saying one thing - Chris Jericho IS AEW! 

“This is not a company for the fans,” the veteran continued, “This is a company for me! To prove to you the name value of Chris Jericho, let’s see what happened:

“We got a company, we got a fancy logo, we got a giant television deal, we sold 12,000 tickets in four minutes, and the reason for that? ME.”

The crowd rumbled in displeasure as Jericho continued to sing his own praises. “And I told you,” he reminded these fans, “When I beat Kenny Omega, which I did by the skin of my teeth! But I beat Kenny Omega, and I was going to demand one thing from all of you, one thing from AEW and that is a ‘thank you’.” 

The crowd refused, only giving him mixed feelings of gratitude or disdain. They didn’t get louder for the legend, much to Mox’s satisfaction. _ He ain’t getting a ‘thank you’ from me, _ Mox thought as he slowly turned to the stairs. _ He’s gonna wish that’s why I was here. _

“I said I DEMAND a ‘Thank you’!” Jericho repeated. He glared and paced across one side of the ring waiting for that thank you. He frowned a little deeper when his order didn’t escalate them into a thrall-boosting chant or a shower of boos. The response that did start was much, much different.

It was a roar. A slowly escalating roar, peppered with screams. Had a fight broken out in the stands? This thrall wasn’t for him, nothing coming toward the ring. What was happening? He scanned the stands before him looking for that answer, unaware of the shark swimming through the crowd toward that ring. 

Mox felt that roar. He felt the escalating excitement. He felt that thrall from the audience - an intoxicating blend of “debut” and “Return” at the same time. People recognized him, despite the close-cropped hair, the beard, the lack of anything dark blue in his gear. He’d chosen gray fatigues and a sleeveless vest from his storied past in the grungy independent scenes of Ohio, Indiana and Pennsylvania. A flicker of orange through the throng that only made them louder, only raised the level of excitement amidst the 12,000 strong who came to this event, not expecting him. 

He showed a nod of solidarity to his brothers coming through the stands, walking through the crowd as eyes grew wider and voices grew louder. He took in more and more of this excitement as he cut a path between the last row of the floor seats and the base of the bleachers, their anticipation swelling with his own. His march swift and deliberate. He didn’t run. He didn’t wander. He approached with purpose, not a single pause as he cleared a guardrail and rolled himself into the ring, seeing that Jericho remained confused to the sudden roar. 

Mox pushed quickly to his feet, rolling his shoulders in a smooth and unsettling fashion, a tic that fans recognized and only screamed louder. Jericho finally turned around to the berserk crowd behind him, red and yellow streamers bouncing between the two men. 

Blue eyes met blue eyes. Mox savored that few seconds of surprise and recognition from Jericho, followed by the audible _ thump _ of the microphone. The crowd’s voice escalated, the thrall flowing into Mox’s body and only raising Jericho’s hackles even more.

“What’re you doing here?” Jericho demanded. Mox didn’t answer that question.

“You don’t belong here!” Jericho continued in a slow burning panic. “Get out!” 

Mox couldn’t hear Jericho’s words, even if he knew what was said. Instead of a straight answer, he tilted his head slowly toward the crowd, not taking his eyes off Chris. He knew that Jericho’s Opened Eyes could see the energies coming in. Mox Knew that Jericho could See what was about to happen. 

Jericho’s continued protests lost as the noise consolidated into a “Moxley! Moxley!” chant. They were silenced moments later with a definitive double-armed DDT to the mat. The chant melted into cheers, and Mox the only one standing in the ring.

His gaze did turn to a tentative order from the referee, Paul Turner. _ No match, no foul, _Mox reasoned before flooring him too. The crowd exploded from this action; they celebrated for him. They knew. They remembered. He turned to the ropes and propped himself up for a few seconds to let all that thrall wash over him in wave after wave. 

“MOTHERFUCKERS I’M HERE!” He shouted back to them, not caring if they heard. He waved his arms toward his chest, begging for more and more of that thrall, that explosion of recognition and relief. That roar that reminded him _ why _he did this. Never mind the how, or with who. Never mind where, never mind when. This now made every moment before worth everything to him. 

Money didn’t matter. Time didn’t matter. NOW. Now was all that mattered. And that now turned into another deluge of “Moxley!” chants as he made room in the ring for one final target.

Kenny Omega finally stirred from the commotion. He saw a faint wave of a calloused hand, unaware initially of that danger. Mox casually closed on the fallen Omega, dropping to a knee to let things sink in before attempting to drop him, too. Despite the match before, Kenny had time to recover enough to fight free of the attack. The two fell through the ropes and landed on the remains of a broken table.

Mox cursed under his breath for lowering his guard. He cursed again that the table had already been broken, that would have been a nice bonus for his debut. Omega recovered quickly, both brawling into the crowd.

“A-E-DUB! A-E-DUB!” The audience roared around them, showering the pair with more and more thrall from all in attendance. Mox noted Omega’s thrall slowly coming back online, a summer sky blue that flickered and dithered like a poor satellite signal. Mox hesitated only a second, enough for Omega to step up his speed and push Mox into the corner of the stage set. 

Mox’s dazed gaze followed the stage upward to the set piece that blocked his path. Giant poker chips, each the size of a dinner table, stacked high on the edge. One leaned against the pile, blocking their path upward. Mox shoved it aside to hop to the top of the pile, just to catch his breath a little. Even with all that thrall in his system just demanding to come out, he held it back. He wanted to feel this for himself. Everything sounded right. Everything looked right to this point. 

His evaluation interrupted as Omega joined him on top of the poker chip pile, still angry about Mox’s arrival. Mox stumbled back,closer to the far edge of the chip as Omega reached out for him. That second enough for Mox to get his footing and add a couple of knee strikes to Kenny’s face. The blood had already spilled previously with a broken nose Kenny received during the match with Jericho, but the blows stunned him further, leaving stars in his eyes and his thrall fizzling out. He couldn’t resist Mox’s offense any further as he unceremoniously slammed into the chips with Mox’s assistance. The Cincy native then sat next to the barely conscious Omega, listening to the crowd roar and openly tasting that level of thrall, something he hadn’t felt in about three years. 

But those past cheers were for that other guy. Mox had the crowd in the palm of his hand. Once more he reached for Omega, getting some of that blood on his hands. He made a show of licking the blood from his palms before putting what was left of his adversary on his shoulders. This wasn’t his move, either; some other “John” did stuff like this, but another DDT would mean he’d have to go off the pile with Omega. Not tonight. 

Tonight, Mox wanted to stand alone so off the pile of chips went Kenny Omega into another piece of the set. Once more the crowd exploded in cheers, celebrating their new arrival. He raised both arms to the crowd, thrall blasting in from the audience under the glow of the spotlights and the eyes of thousands. His triumph. His arrival.

His deposing of an “Alpha” and an “Omega”.

The roar sustained as he lowered his arms, finally allowing his thrall to flicker to life. In all that fervor, in all that chaos, in all the adulation and thrall, it had happened.

The deep, dark blue that had long associated him with his brothers was gone. What remained across his leathered hands and scarred forearms was a faint glow of a rich, warm, Cincinnati orange. An orange that pulsed like a construction site light with each louder chant of his name.

Jon Moxley hadn’t been forgotten. That’s all that mattered now. He hoped his now former brothers-in-arms would Understand. 

He was free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I just need to go back and finish "Two Good Men"!


End file.
